


To Make Britain Proud

by fraufi666



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Iron Lady (2011), Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Aging, Alternate Universe - Politics, Cold War, Crossover, Death, Dementia, Drama, F/M, Gen, Loss, Memories, Mild Language, Politics, Recovered Memories, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5248553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraufi666/pseuds/fraufi666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In her final days, Thatcher encounters England as well as some of the memories that were the strongest during and after her time in power. Crippled with dementia, she has trouble distinguishing memories from reality, yet this friendly personification offers his support to her to the end. But will she ever remember?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Former Prime Minister

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story is a historical AU. Although I have used historical figures and some references based from real events, (e.g the Cold War, Thatcher’s era) this is entirely a work of fiction. All romantic encounters, events and insinuations are from my imagination. I mean no disrespect to any of the people depicted. I am also in no way politically biased. One of the characters (such as that of country personifications) is from the anime series Axis Powers Hetalia and has no relation to the historical figures show. I thank those who have helped me with ideas, as well as some of the sources I have used for research.

The early morning light sliced through the curtains as she sat on her bed, her mind in a haze. Margaret Thatcher, former Prime Minister felt as if she had some duty to perform, yet every time she rushed to the door, the irritating nurse came by her side to escort her back in. 

"Mrs Thatcher, it's time to take your medicine."

_Why do they treat me like an invalid?_ Thatcher grumbled inwardly, getting up from the bed. As always, she would take the medicine as asked, before stuffing the medication into a pot plant. She wasn't mad and she hated to be treated in that way. After reluctantly going back to her room, she felt relieved to have dodged   another bullet. But a sudden knock at the door made her almost jump out of her skin. 

"Bloody hell, who the devil are you?" Thatcher gasped. 

"Forgive me, Mrs Thatcher." A polite voice apologised. It was so familiar but unfamiliar at the same time. Male and young, but filled with the gentlemanly tone that could only belong to a man of experience. "I didn't want to wake you, but well, I figured you would be up at this time…"

"You've come to check on me, haven't you?" Thatcher asked suspiciously. It must have been another nurse, although she could not remember Carol ever hiring a male one. "Well, what is the matter?"  

The figure that had spoken walked out of the shadows and towards the light. Thatcher looked at the man in confusion but then upon seeing the kind, green eyes under the bushy eyebrows, she remembered him.  

"Britain. What are you doing here?" 

Arthur Kirkland gave a small smile as he walked closer to her. "Even though it's been years, you still remember me." He said in wonder. He could not remember the last time someone had called him that. If he were lucky, the other nations would call him England, but Britain…never. A small sense of pride stirred in his heart, but upon looking at the former Prime Minister, it was quickly replaced with sorrow.  

"Mrs Thatcher…how are you feeling?"  

"What do you mean, how am I feeling?!" Thatcher demanded, her old eyes, still as sharp as ever. "Do you know how patronising it is to be asked how I feel? Ideas are so much better than feelings. Don't ask me how I feel. Ask me what I'm thinking."*

Despite her tone, Kirkland smiled in understanding. From being by her side whilst she was in power, he knew that she preferred to be spoken to without sympathy and without pity. "Forgive me, Mrs Thatcher. Tell me, what are you thinking?"

"It's been a year since Denis has left." Thatcher said quietly "And the British Empire will continue to crumble. Unless we do something about it, nothing will change." 

Kirkland looked slightly confused. "Whatever do you mean, Mrs Thatcher? It's 2013. The empire has already finished. It has finished for some time now."

"Ridiculous." Thatcher hissed. "Next, you'll be telling me that the Cold War has finished."   
  


The kind green eyes were watery as Kirkland heard her answer. He wanted to tell her the truth, but just as he opened his mouth she had rolled over and went back to sleep.


	2. End of an era

He was in 10 Downing Street. Thatcher sat at her desk, focussing on some papers. She looked slightly younger, yet was not all that aware with her surroundings. A calendar behind her said that it was 1990. The public and later her cabinet members had long deserted her. An end of an era was approaching. 

Someone was knocking on the door. 

"Margaret! You can't do that to your people. Get out of there at once."  

"Go away." Thatcher said firmly, not even taking her eyes off the paper "I'm doing this for the good of the country."

Kirkland sat down in front of her. "They're right, you know. You can't."

Thatcher glared at him, "Of course I can. When has anything like that stopped me?" 

"You know he's just worried about you." Kirkland explained. "We all are."

"Be quiet!" She demanded, trying to read through the paper fiercely "I need to remember this speech by tomorrow and you're not helping."

"But you can't…can you?" Kirkland said slowly. "Mrs Thatcher, you're only hurting yourself. It's past your time now, Margaret. You've served for so long, you need to let them take care of it." 

Thatcher glared at him, "Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn't do? You know, Denis told me the same thing. But it's pointless. Britain needs a strong leader and I don't want the nightmare of the left to run this country."

As soon as she said this, she stared at the wall blankly. Why did her husband's name seem so ominous? The way she had mentioned his name brought on some sort of loss, yet she could not figure out what it was. 

 "Denis…" She repeated, the word unfamiliar and heavy on her tongue. 

"That's right, Margaret. Denis is worried about you. He wants you back home. And your children. They miss you so dearly."

There was a look of sadness in her eyes, but it was brief. Her gaze hardened once more. By now they had grown up. "They don't need me." She said dismissively. "The nation needs me more than anything. Now, if you don't mind, I need to read in peace."

"Very well." Kirkland sighed, before turning away. 

 

Although she was still trying her best to remember a speech, Kirkland knew that the longest reigning Prime Minister could not run the country forever. Even though she did not want to speak to him at all, he knew that he could not leave her. 

 


	3. My deepest regrets…

She had sat up in her bed, grey hair standing on end. 

"No…No…" She muttered sleepily. Kirkland stood up, ready to help her but she had gone back to sleep. 

  *

After the Cold War, Thatcher sat at her desk, letters piling up. It was five in the morning and she had barely a wink of sleep. Her hands were stained with ink as she wrote another letter. Although these were letters written with human compassion, she wrote like a machine, refusing to go to sleep until every letter to every fallen soldier had been written.

_My deepest regrets to your dear son, Mark who had given his life for Britain._

Mark. Her heart skipped a beat. It was the same name as her son. Although she had not really known much about lieutenant Mark, she had felt a certain attachment to him. Being a mother, she could almost imagine how tragic it would be to lose a child. But as she continued to write she suddenly remembered sitting in a car as it struggled to drive through numerous crowds of angry protesters.  

"BITCH!" A woman cried out, holding up a picture of a young man, possibly her son. "You killed him! You killed all of our sons!" 

"Do you even have children?" Another voice cried. Thatcher tried to ignore them. But the next voice made her tug at her gloves in discomfort. 

"Of course she has kids. But it's not like she cares about them. Only cares about waging war and having more power. _Disgusting woman_."

At that comment, her heart sank as she kept her eyes downcast. She felt broken. But her face did not indicate it. Since joining politics, she had become an expert at hiding her real feelings. But it did hurt to know that despite bearing and raising two children of her own, people were still going to see her as incapable of loving like a mother. Now that she thought of it, most probably would not even regard her as human. Yet she looked calm, not even bothering to look back on the sobbing woman, not even bothering to wind down the window and to cry out that she was sorry. It was fruitless, and in a moment, she had forgotten all about it. 

Back at the desk, she wanted to go back to the protest and to let the woman know that yes, she did understand. Although she would not want her own son to go out and fight (for he was still so young), she would have hated for anything to happen to him. But she was tired. Too tired to fight back. She wanted to sleep. 

Yet she continued to write. 

_My deepest regrets…_

 


	4. First Gentleman of my Heart

She was well accustomed to the bitter cold of London. Yet today felt even colder. They were carrying him away, carrying him away from her. Denis lay in the coffin that was draped in the Union Jack, yet she knew that he was already gone. It was this moment that made it all the more real. 

Thatcher remembered how he would brighten up a tiring day of Parliament with a joke. And if he had seen a headline that had criticised her, he was quick to turn it against them. 

"They don't know what they're talking about. All this tabloid rubbish is good for is for firewood." he joked once, when Thatcher was feeling low. "Come on, old girl. You know better than to be sad. That's what they want." 

"But why must they hate me so much, Denis?" the woman sighed sadly "When I've been faced with so many hard decisions?" 

"I know, dear. I know you have. But one day they will all appreciate it, you'll see. And if they don't, history will print it all. Whether they like it or not, they will know the truth." 

Back outside in the cold, Thatcher looked back at the coffin. She had been holding it together so well when she made her speech to him, his loyal partner, the first gentleman of her heart. And now, he was going to be buried six feet under, far away from her. 

The rose in her hand was trembling. Slowly, she walked towards the coffin as it was about to be lowered.

"Mum, let me help you," Carol started, noticing Thatcher's clumsy steps. She was getting much weaker now. With each passing day, she was getting slower and she had no idea why. Even when she was talking, she would find it gradually more difficult to retaliate with better arguments. And the way people stared at her. Oh, how she hated it.  

They were looking at her that way now, as her daughter gently took her by the arm, assisting her to the coffin. Mark took her other arm, helping her to keep her balance. 

It was pity. Nothing but pity in their faces. Once she used to be admired, even feared. And now, they looked at her as if she was helpless. It made her angry, but she chose not to make a scene. 

"Let me go." She whispered to the hands that helped her "I need to do this for myself." Even her voice had lost the sharp tone that she was so well known for. It was a plea. 

With reluctance, they let her go. Thatcher was finally on the edge of the coffin. Even though only a few members of the press were there, there were too many flashes of cameras. She tried to ignore them. She had made it there.  

"I will always love you Denis." Margaret whispered, still clutching the rose in her hand. She was thankful for the big black hat that obscured her sad, wrinkly face, which seemed to crumple more as she thought of him. A tear fell from one of her eyes. 

There was more that she had wanted to say, but it was only Denis that she wanted to hear these words, even if he was no longer here. Perhaps behind the Union Jack and the polished mahogany he could hear those words. She decided to try anyway. 

_Goodbye, Denis. Goodbye, the first gentleman of my heart. I feel so much weaker now. But I will join you soon, mark my words._

_I love you…_

Tears fell on the rose, the tears of the Iron Lady who was slowly getting rusty. With some effort, she threw the rose into the grave, standing by and watching the coffin lower further and further into the ground. 

 

_Goodbye._  

*

With a start Thatcher jumped up in her bed. She looked at the young man in her room with bewilderment. 

"Where am I?!" She choked. Never, did she expect to be taken away from Denis so suddenly.

"It's okay, Mrs Thatcher. You're safe. You're home." 

"Where is Denis?! Where is he? I didn't even get to finish saying goodbye!" She cried. A part of her hoped that it was all just a bad dream. 

The personification looked sad. "He's gone, Margaret. He has been gone for a while."

"Don't you lie to me!” Thatcher shrieked. She pointed an accusing finger at him "He's still alive, I know he is. Why, he only spoke to me the other day! We had breakfast together. Why would I imagine such a thing?" 

A brief memory flashed into her mind. She was boiling eggs. Denis was always hopeless at doing that. He was sitting at the table, newspaper open and reading the front headline. As soon as she placed his breakfast down the man smiled at his wife and began to crack the shell.  

"You're always the best at making these, Maggie." He said with a wink. 

Thatcher looked back at the table. The egg sat untouched and the bread was getting cold. The newspaper was left folded on the tabletop, unread.  

Back in the present, she glared at Kirkland before staring into space, trying to push the image of the empty chair and the untouched breakfast out of her head.*  

"I would never make up such things. I saw him with my own eyes."  Thatcher insisted, her voice wavering. The determination in her voice had gone. The green pools of the personification were filled with melancholy, as he knew. 

 

They both did. 

 


	5. A difficult decision

Her hands were spread out on the navy map before her, scrutinising it carefully. Kirkland had stood watching her as she pondered. He recognised the geographical location immediately. _The Falklands_. 

"Prime Minister, we need a decision now." One of the navy officers said with urgency.  

Thatcher frowned as she thought desperately. She turned to Kirkland, her fierce eyes lost. 

But he knew how it was going to end. They both did. 

"Reclaim the Falklands, but don't sink the Belgrano." Kirkland found himself saying "You know this already, Margaret." 

She looked at him, baffled. It was as if she had forgotten that he was in the room. He could have been a navy officer, yet he was dressed more as a politician. Where did she see him from?

"What are you on about?" She asked in alarm, "Don't you see that this is an enemy ship?" The navy officer behind her nodded silently, as he agreed with her words. The other officers waited patiently, listening to her obediently. They were willing to do anything for her, even die for her. She turned to him "We can't have fascist control on British territory. It will merely spread to all of the neighbouring countries. Unless of course you support fascist rule? It's disgusting. I refuse to allow British territory to be tainted by such evil!"  

Briefly, he recalled watching the bodies fall on the field. A waste of so many young lives. But sadly, he was familiar with such a chilling sight. With this memory alive in his head, Kirkland turned back to her in horror. "But these are young men on those ships. Children, for goodness' sakes!" He searched for the tiniest sign of compassion in the fierce blue storm in her eyes "Prime Minister…the people will hate you." 

"So let them hate me." Thatcher responded coldly. "This is war, Mr-?" Her face went blank as if all determination had taken away all knowledge. There was an apologetic smile "I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name…"

" Arthur Kirkland." He answered patiently.

"Mr Kirkland." She started again "If one is prepared to compromise on everything, trying so desperately to be liked, one will achieve nothing. * I do not want public opinion to dull my motive." She started to walk towards the navy officer to speak to him but Kirkland stood in her way, blocking her. 

"You're making a big mistake..." Kirkland pleaded "Please, Margaret…just wake up…"

"Get out of my way, you fool." Thatcher hissed. A nerve was struck. With a single shove, she pushed him aside and walked to the navy officer who was waiting eagerly for an answer.  

"I want you to sink the Belgrano. The Argentinians will not learn their lesson otherwise." She instructed forcefully. The other navy officers scrambled to the map studying it quickly so to carry out the task well. 

The head officer saluted her. "Certainly Prime Minister."

Kirkland held his head in his hands with dismay.  

*

"Falklands…I did the right thing." Thatcher said slowly, sitting up in the bed. 

"Of course you did." Kirkland said. He did not want to bring up the sinking of the Belgrano, knowing that she was in a very fragile state. Perhaps she chose to forget it, particularly the backlash that she had received from the public for doing so. "You helped to end the Cold War, Mrs Thatcher." 

She looked down at her bedclothes. "What am I doing here?" She asked in confusion "I have to be out! I have a speech to make." 

"But Mrs Thatcher, you already made the speech. It's all over now. It has been for many years."

But she refused to listen, her mind still stuck in the past. Why did it feel like a large gap of her memory, or rather her life was missing? She stood up, hobbling over to the wardrobe to find an outfit. 

Kirkland tried to stop her, "No, Mrs Thatcher. You need your rest! You're confused."  

"Confused?! You know nothing! I am Prime Minister and nobody can tell me how I should think! Get out!" She began to shout "Get out, get out!" 

Kirkland placed a hand on her arm, trying to reassure her "Margaret…please."

Although this gesture would normally get other nations or politicians to stop fighting, Thatcher pulled away from the personification. Before either of them could come to their senses, she struck him on the cheek. 

With a trembling hand, he held his cheek in pain. Looking up at Thatcher she was sitting back in the bed, eyes wide in disbelief. Even though the slap was painful, nothing was more painful than watching a former leader crumble as badly as the Iron Lady. 

He stood in silence for a few moments, giving her a chance to regain her composure. She looked back up at him and shifted aside on the bed to allow him sit down beside her. There was some guilt in her expression.  

"I'm sorry Arthur." the former Prime Minister apologised. It was the first time she had ever addressed him by his first name. "I am just so confused. I'm so lost." She looked down at her wrinkled hands, which were shaking and turned back to him. If there was a chance for her to go back to being Prime Minister, she would. But it was all over, much to her dismay. There was no way to turn back now. 

Yet something in her manner changed. It seemed as if perhaps everything was rushing back to her, but this time these memories were coherent and no longer fragmented. She was giving a speech to a crowd of enthusiastic Tory supporters, shaking hands with the Queen, Reagan and many other important officials. She was debating fiercely in Parliament for the liberty and freedom of the people, to later on contribute to the privatisation of many sectors. There were people who were throwing eggs at her car, unionists, no doubt, but the image quickly changed to people throwing flowers at her. Numerous campaign posters with her face were plastered all over the street and she could recall being granted the title of a Baroness. She even recalled herself in tears at the news of the loss of British serviceman's lives at the Falklands and the way Denis tried to console her that this was what war was all about. And lastly, she looked into Denis' eyes, before giving him a final kiss as he left her forever. 

 It was a long life of much hardship and many difficult decisions, but at the same time, there were many achievements. Yet it felt as if she had not enjoyed or experienced the achievements as much as she should have.  

"I'm getting old…" She sighed, remembering what she had overheard the doctors say, "Oh…Denis really has gone hasn't he?"

Kirkland nodded silently, feeling slightly relieved that she was coming back. But this only meant one thing: That the end was near. 

But she did not look fearful. Even on her aged face, there was a look of sharp knowledge that she had always possessed.

"I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later." Thatcher responded calmly. There was a sad smile on her face. There was one thing she wanted before she left and she hoped that the young man sitting beside her could help her with it.  

"Arthur…don't you think that life flies by all too quickly? How some moments seem like seconds? I would do anything to go back." If there were a moment that she had wanted to revisit before she had gone, it would have to be that moment when she had won the election and became Prime Minister. It was one of the happiest moments of her life. 

But she did not have to say another word. Kirkland knew what she was hoping for, as it was a moment that she had cherished. Being a personification, he could use his power to take her back. It was the least he could do for someone who had reigned for so long. It was a final wish that he was going to grant for her.  

He helped her onto the bed, pulling the blanket over her body gently and taking hold of her hand.

"I can do that. Now close your eyes, Prime Minister…your duty is done now." 

She gave a small smile of gratitude, as if she were saluting him and then closed her eyes, finally following an order. It seemed as if she was too weak to protest, but internally, she was strong. In reality, there was no need to protest anymore. She did not need to thank him, for he already knew what she was thinking. This was enough.   
  


"I will join you soon, Denis…" She whispered at last.  


	6. To Make Britain Proud: Prime Minister

Numerous cameras were flashing as Thatcher stood in a brilliant blue dress, her arms raised. There were so many faces and she could not recognise any of them, despite the fact that they knew her very well. But that did not matter now, for she had succeeded. She was now where she had wanted to be, what she had wished for  for so long. The crowd cheered loudly, the clapping almost echoing the whole room. She walked out of 10 Downing Street, so glad to finally set foot outdoors. Denis strode beside her loyally. He looked so proud and lovely that she felt more in love with him. The room that she had sat in all alone, only being visited by nurses was no longer important anymore. She was free, and this was the way things were meant to be. 

But there was one face in the audience, which seemed so familiar. It was the young man with the kind green eyes. He stood in a suit, beaming at her in admiration. She walked towards him, ignoring the media as they tried to take more photographs. 

"Congratulations, Prime Minister." He said to her proudly.  

Yet even though he had spoken, her mind was blank. She could not remember who he was, even though she was sure that he was very important to her and what she stood for. 

"I'm sorry but who are you?" Thatcher asked politely.  

The man smiled before taking her hand and shaking it. "I'm Arthur Kirkland, personification of Britain." He said with a smile.  

As soon as he said that, there was a look of realisation in her eyes. "Oh…" She said, remembering who he was. He had helped her through so much and she knew that he was going to continue to do so. She wanted nothing more than to do everything for this man. For her country. For everyone. That was going to be her greatest achievement. 

Still holding his hand, she smiled at him in gratitude, her eyes sparkling. To Kirkland, she has seemed so young and joyful, almost beautiful. It was hard to believe that she was to become a woman that was to be hated by so many…to be remembered as a witch by the unionists. To see her so happy broke him more, for she could not see what was coming her way.  

But he chose to stay silent. He did not want to spoil the best moment of her life. 

"Britain…" Thatcher started again in a proud voice. It was as if she was going to make this speech to the whole nation, to the whole world. But really, it was just to him, a young man who deserved so much. She took a deep breath before continuing. "…I will make you proud." 

And as he expected, her strong hand felt limp in his, as she fell forward. The cameras and the crowd had completely disappeared. Around them, everything grew dark as the Iron Lady fell into his arms. He caught her just in time. 

Just as the life began to seep out of her, he ran a hand through her hair, a beacon of light in the gloom. Sooner or later it was going to dull and go out forever. But he clung to her, knowing that she was still there to hear him, just barely. He needed to tell her the words to make everything count. To make her realise that all she had done was not going to be for nothing. 

 

"You already have…" 

 

**Author's Note:**

> *Footnotes for historical explanations: 
> 
> “Ideas are so much better than feelings. Don't ask me how I feel. Ask me what I'm thinking.”: This quotation was based from The Iron Lady although I was also inspired by a quote of Thatcher’s. The full quote was “People don’t think anymore, they feel. One of the great problems of our age, is that we are governed by people who care more about feelings rather than thoughts and ideas."
> 
> “Back in the present, she glared at Kirkland before staring into space, trying to push the image of the empty chair and the untouched breakfast out of her head.”: It was said that after Denis’ death, Thatcher still saw him. This is also a concept explored in The Iron Lady. 
> 
> "If one is prepared to compromise on everything, trying so desperately to be liked, one will achieve nothing...": This quote was also inspired from another quote of Thatcher, which perfectly demonstrated her controversial and hard-lined political style and policies. The quote was, “If you just set out to be liked, you will be prepared to compromise on anything at anytime, and would achieve nothing.”


End file.
